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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28583379">Capitol Son</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/froovygirl/pseuds/froovygirl'>froovygirl</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Hunger Games Series - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>But there are reasons he's a shit, Dark Peeta Mellark, F/M, Katniss wasn't reaped, M/M, Peeta is a shit, Unrequited Love</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-05-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 05:41:13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,397</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28583379</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/froovygirl/pseuds/froovygirl</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Victor Peeta Mellark speaks with his father after a night - or morning - of excess in the Capitol.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Katniss Everdeen/Peeta Mellark, Peeta Mellark/Other(s)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>44</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Trying this again, as I'm pretty sure I screwed something up posting the first time. Cross your fingers... </p>
<p>Hello from a longtime (and I mean longtime) THG lurker. For years, I've enjoyed the works of some truly talented writers in this fandom, such as misshoneywell, atethermind, andthisisthewonder, papofglencoe, and awhiskeyriver, to name a few. There are so many more.</p>
<p>Let's just say I had a pretty pollyanna view of my favorite characters, especially the charming Peeta Mellark, until I was dragged into the intoxicating world of dark!Peeta (misshoneywell, I'm lookin' at you). Still, I never thought I'd write him in that manner. Heck, I never thought I'd write HG fic at all, but little-lynx posted some marvelous artwork of a dark, Capitolite Peeta (see her tumblr page for my inspiration) and here we are. The story just came and the words flowed, and this is the result.</p>
<p>Thanks again to the writers who have inspired me, expanded my fanfic worldview, brightened my days with their words and cost me hours of sleep (gladly) with their updates. This fandom and the writers in it continue to amaze and enthrall me. Hopefully, I haven't taken an undue liberty with little-lynx's artwork, but it spoke to me and my muse insisted that I reply accordingly, so happy reading! I'm interested in your thoughts, since I feel like I'm climbing out on a limb with this Peeta. Please, feel free to let me know what you think!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> A morning - or evening - in the Capitol... </em>
</p>
<p>“I know you sent extra last month – we’re grateful for that, son – but we didn’t receive the normal amount of flour this month, and the cost was so steep. Must be a problem with the harvest in Nine. And the baby’s sick again, so we had to hire someone to cover some of Bann’s shifts…”</p>
<p>
  <em> Was there nothing in this fucking penthouse he could take? </em>
</p>
<p>Pushing a limp curl from his eye while willing himself not to yank it out entirely as his father droned on, Peeta Mellark upended a drawer in search of a remedy for his pounding skull. Finding nothing helpful, he stumbled toward the icebox and began stuffing frozen chips into a bag. Then his fingers fell to a familiar smoothness, and the bag was abruptly forgotten.</p>
<p>Vodka was better. He’d temper the drumbeat with a surefire buzz.</p>
<p>Hair of the dog, Haymitch always said. Maybe he’d listen, for once.</p>
<p>“Fuck, it’s <em> fine. </em> Enough,” Peeta mumbled impatiently, tearing the seal off the liquor with his teeth and spitting it onto the floor. Good thing he'd turned the video feature off the comm device. “How much?”</p>
<p>Funny how quickly his father got to the point after all the buildup. Once they settled on an amount, Peeta snapped his fingers toward the Avox huddled in the corner of the expansive, excessively furnished living room. He scribbled a few instructions, then waved the soundless woman off so she could begin the transaction.</p>
<p>Now his dad was trying to <em> nurture. </em> Peeta took a lazy drag of a half-burnt cigarette lying about, noting bitterly how <em> that </em> ship had sailed years ago. Maybe after the third, fourth or tenth time his mother had clubbed him.</p>
<p>He’d remind his father of that every so often, but not today.</p>
<p>“Things are fine here. Same as always. I sold a few paintings last week” – and got the patron off not once, but twice while she forked over the credits – “and taped a guest appearance on a new culinary series.”</p>
<p>“I’m glad you’re painting, Peet.” His father chose his words carefully, lest he trigger his youngest’s volatile temper. “Any progress on the book you were thinking about? Seemed like a good idea.”</p>
<p>Ah, the book. Another of Effie’s big, big, <em> big </em> concepts. Since the Capitol was insatiable for all things Peeta Mellark, dashing victor of the 74th Hunger Games, she had envisioned a culinary guide filled with sophisticated dishes worthy of sophisticated Capitolites. Then a <em> fabulous </em> media tour where special donors could whet their appetites with intimate book signings and perhaps even one-on-one sessions. Clothing optional. Free-flowing favors mandatory. </p>
<p>Dessert, of course, would be the one and only Peeta Mellark, baker’s boy-turned murderer of innocent children, to ravage until they swallowed him whole.</p>
<p>“Nothing yet,” Peeta answered, swilling the liquid in the bottle before taking another gulp. “I’ve been busy with appearances the last few months.”</p>
<p>There was a pause. “Yes, we’ve seen.” So his father <em> had </em> viewed the tabloid photos of him, suit disheveled and eyes glassy, with the three women his mother would deem lower than Seam trash. He’d been the guest of honor at a Victors-themed nightclub opening, where the favors had been plentiful and the sex even more so.</p>
<p>With a bitter smirk, Peeta wondered if his parents had seen the other set of photos featuring him half-dressed with his dick firmly in the grip of a male gamemaker.</p>
<p>Sometimes, he wondered why he bothered with the dark suits tailored impeccably to his specifications. The pants usually ended up in a heap at his ankles, anyway.</p>
<p>“Peeta.” His heart lurched a bit as he heard a distant clink of bread pans coming out of an oven far away. “I think the book would be a fine way to honor your roots here in Twelve. You could even include that bread you only made once a year, with the nuts and raisins – ”</p>
<p>“No!” Peeta slammed the bottle onto the countertop, grimacing as shards of glass flew toward his stubbled chin. Dammit, why wouldn’t his head just fucking <em> explode </em> already? He took a long, shuddering breath, forcing calm as he snapped a second Avox into action. Peeta signed for a new bottle of vodka, then turned his attention back to his father, who was probably flummoxed by his temperamental son.</p>
<p>"He was such a nice boy before the Games," Peeta imagined his father whispering to Rye.</p>
<p>“What I <em> meant,</em>” Peeta intoned smoothly in the measured tone of a Victor, “is that I’m certain Effie has specific plans for the content. And I doubt a recipe from Twelve fits her vision.”</p>
<p>He almost disliked himself for the haughty implication that a baker’s humble recipe from Twelve, the backwoods district known for its coal, its poverty and its woefully common stock, would be worthy of a book for Capitolites.</p>
<p>It might be different if he had any love left for his homeland.</p>
<p>Peeta could practically feel his father’s disappointment through the comm. Shrugging, he poured himself a double from the fresh bottle – those Avoxes <em> were quiet </em> – and plopped into a chair strewn with wrappers from whatever Capitol drug he and Finnick had consumed with President Snow’s niece last night. Or was it this morning? Probably both. </p>
<p>At some point, they’d whirled the dance of intoxication, tumbled to the ornate carpet in time with the grinding beat of whatever band the niece favored, then disappeared into a mass of moans, thrusts and cum.</p>
<p>It might be different if he cared, even a little.</p>
<p>“I have to go.” Something sharp was poking his ass. “Ow… dammit!”</p>
<p>Peeta pulled a gleaming, hideously expensive-looking tiara from his seat. Grimy with the remnants of last night’s – or this morning’s – pricey champagne, it stuck in his fingers.</p>
<p>Snow’s niece had pranced around the suite naked, reciting the price of each jewel embedded in the tiara as she’d kneaded her bountiful breasts – “I just got them!” she’d squealed – with the strokes of a pro.</p>
<p>She was fourteen, and Peeta had fucked her. He’d never even held a girl’s hand when he was fourteen.</p>
<p>He didn’t fucking care anymore.</p>
<p>“Look, I’m late. I’m sure Effie’s already fuming. The funds are on their way. I’ve done what I can from here.”</p>
<p>Across the miles, his father, hands clean but for the ever-present flour in the nooks, knew he’d been dismissed. “Of course, son. I don’t mean to keep you. I just wish…”</p>
<p>Something in his father’s voice, the one honed by the defeat that only living with his mother could bring, made Peeta put his crystallized glass down and listen.</p>
<p>He rubbed his temple again. The staccato beat of his headache was almost a comfort.</p>
<p>“What do you wish, Dad?” It occurred to Peeta that he couldn’t remember the last time he’d addressed his father by name.</p>
<p>“I wish coming to Twelve wasn’t so painful for you. We miss you, Peet. I love you.”</p>
<p>The word “I” wasn’t lost on Peeta. When was the last time he'd deserved his father's love? At sixteen, he'd become a frightened, reluctant Victor because, ironically, he’d withstood the famine-themed arena by recognizing an ancient grain that grew in the desert environment. That and his sturdy frame nurtured by years of baked goods had allowed him to be the last tribute to wither from hunger.</p>
<p>"How absolutely fitting for a Victor from Twelve!" Caesar had gushed during the final interview. As Peeta had contemplated what it would cost him to snap the purple-haired Capitolite’s neck then and there, he’d realized the Games had already changed him.</p>
<p>In Twelve, Peeta Mellark had become the baker’s disgraced son. In the Capitol, he had become an extravagant, wildly popular Victor prone to sex, substances and anything else that made him forget.</p>
<p>“I have to go.” Mouth tight, Peeta twirled the tiara in his hand, eager to end this.</p>
<p>“Of course. Take care of yourself. And Peet?”</p>
<p>His father was making this a fucking <em> chore. </em> No, he didn’t want to know why Bann’s son was ill to the point his brother was missing shifts. No, he didn’t have a message for Delly. And absolutely fucking <em> no, </em> he did <em> not </em> want to say hello to his cunt of a mother.</p>
<p>“I know you didn’t ask, Peeta, but she’s doing all right.” </p>
<p>As if someone had reached into his chest and clutched his heart mid-beat, Peeta thought he would never breathe again. His hands clenched into fists as the unbidden image of a braid dark as his suits and eyes of moonlight saturated his memory. </p>
<p>“The winter’s been kind, and trades have been good. She’s well; Primrose too. Goodbye, son.”</p>
<p>Peeta hung up, bending over his chair in an anguish he’d worked tirelessly to banish. Breath stuttered, mouth agape as he fought to control his mind and his battered heart, he hurled the tiara and vomited. With a shout, he emptied every drop of vodka from this morning and every pound of bile from the last two years of his life.</p>
<p>The shame, he figured, would stay forever.</p>
<p>He still cared, damn him. Too fucking much.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. The Summer Before</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Peeta isn't always tongue-tied and useless.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Peeta's tongue remains stupidly knotted throughout his elementary, junior high and high school years. Not in the bakery; his mother often sends him out front once his dad has a handle on the morning breads and pastries. </p>
<p>He’s well aware of his silver tongue with customers, always giving a small wave or warm greeting. Even short, pleasant conversations with Darius, when the ‘keeper pops in for a day-old. </p>
<p>It’s a skill, and maybe a necessity. Every time Peeta watches her slip over (or under, if it’s charged) the fence, her braid swaying in time with the cottontails, he worries. What if she’s caught? Katniss Everdeen is no wordsmith; he can barely get a sentence out of her during trades. Part of that is him, of course, and his famous silver tongue that turns to mud when he hears the firm knock on the back door. He tries, he really does, but those eyes of moonlight flash their mistrust of him – a merchie with a full belly and a no skills befitting a woodland huntress. </p>
<p>Then he’s tongue-tied and useless. Again. </p>
<p>And yet. The summer before he was reaped… </p>
<p>She’d caught him kneeling at the edge of the meadow, knee in the earth and back bowed. Sunflower curls scattered in the breeze, sixteen-year-old Peeta didn’t quite understand why he was there, exactly. Or what to do with the hand-drawn picture of the petals that grew wild in the meadow in one hand and the glossy rock in the other.</p>
<p>He stared at the turned earth. Could be anyone’s resting place, really. There were no memorials on the edge of the poorest place in Twelve. Seam folk died every day, alongside the hope that never seemed to make it past a frisson. Some people passed without recognition, not even a marker in the grass. </p>
<p>People who couldn’t eat sure as hell couldn’t scrape together money for a tombstone. </p>
<p>Primrose Everdeen deserved better. </p>
<p>First, he smoothed the soil with his hands, flour and soil meeting, until it was level. Then he found a twig and used it to fashion a message in careful strokes, his hand moving methodically as the sun hovered over the horizon. It cast a hazy, lilting backdrop as he wrote, melting into the soft orange he wished he could capture to lay into this drab, lifeless patch. To make it brighter, like Prim Everdeen made everywhere she’d gone. </p>
<p>“Hey!” The sound of an arrow being notched came before the footsteps, always light. “The only people who have good reason to be here aren’t you. Move along and I won’t put this arrow in your shoulder.”</p>
<p>Dammit. Now she’d really hate him. </p>
<p>Peeta raised his hands as quick as he dared, dropping the rock and the paper as he slowly got to his feet. “Easy, Katniss. It’s me, Peeta.” He turned gingerly, as if expecting the piercing jab of an arrow any second. “Peeta Mellark. I’m not here to cause trouble.”</p>
<p>He felt the judgment of her scowl before he was in a position to see it. Truthfully, it nearly knocked him back onto his knees in its fierceness. And, shamefully, the exhilaration that always hummed up his spine at the mere sight of her began to sizzle. </p>
<p>“What are you doing here?” Her voice was cold, but he detected a sniffle. “This is a private place.”</p>
<p>At least she hadn’t shot him yet. </p>
<p>“I don’t mean to intrude.” He saw her eyes flicker to the items he’d dropped, hints of the sun illuminating the shapes he’d created. “I just wanted to pay my respects.”</p>
<p>Katniss Everdeen, brave and braided, dropped the bow with a jaded huff. “Since when does a merchant bother with a Seam girl? I didn’t see you ‘paying respects’ at her service.” </p>
<p>She watched him wince, shame fleeting across his features. “Would I have been welcome?” he asked quietly, jolted by his own boldness. How could he explain that he’d wanted to leave something of beauty because Prim Everdeen, the lively blonde with an ever-present smile, was important to Katniss? He sighed, defeated and tongue-tied, again.</p>
<p>“I just wanted to -, to… honor her life in some way, but I don’t want to upset you. I’m sorry.” A flush of foolishness tinged his cheeks, and he bent to recover his items, crumpling his artwork in one hand as he retrieved the rock with the other. He hadn’t stalked but a few steps when her hand was on his arm in a touch that seemed to ignite his skin. </p>
<p>“I know.” Her silvery eyes were glassy as she turned to face him – maybe actually see him – for the first time. “I know you care. You – you saved her once. All of us.”</p>
<p>She seemed smaller in that moment, shoulders low and lips trembling as she clutched his arm for support. He ached to nestle her into his chest, stroke the wetness from her cheek and murmur that he’d be there to steady her, always. </p>
<p>But, because she was vulnerable and he was a coward, Peeta did none of those things. He simply pushed his paltry offering into her hand, curled his fingers around hers and mumbled, “I’m so sorry, Katniss.” Then he lumbered into the sunset so she could grieve the one person she couldn’t bear to lose – alone.</p>
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